When Dreams Come True In Miniature

MEMORIES OF CHRISTMAS 1962

“It has a light that really lights, and a doorbell that really rings ...” I'll never forget those words. It was 1961, and I memorized and chanted this sentence no less than 200 times a day. They came from a TV commercial for the “Marx-A-Mansion Dreamhouse®;” a dollhouse made by the old Louis Marx & Company. From about 1918 to 1980, Marx manufactured several tin litho dollhouses that were popular in the 50s and 60s. I had a small one when I was about four years old that eventually found its way into the storefront window of my grandfather's real estate office.

But, the Marx-A-Mansion Dreamhouse, a/k/a “Marxie,” was the cat daddy of them all. It was their largest house, evolving from their original Colonial. This wonder had seven rooms and a balcony off the master bedroom. I wanted that house! I talked about it constantly; cut out pictures from the newspaper and stuck them on the fridge, the front door and tucked in my mother's purse. Christmas was coming, and the world would crumble if I didn't get that magical mansion. Of course, I didn't get it.

Christmas morning of 1961 was the most tragic of days. I fought back tears of disappointment, as I was raised not to sulk and show signs of being ungrateful. I tried. I really tried, but my heart was broken. So I put the Dreamhouse out of my mind – sort of. To suffice, I made tons of little houses from cardboard boxes, designing homemade wallpaper and bottle cap furniture. They became very elaborate, and soon I had created an entire neighborhood of shoe box tract houses. One day I came home from school, and they were gone. I never bothered to ask; I knew my hobbies were excessive.

Shortly after Thanksgiving on the morning of my birthday the following year, I ran upstairs to visit my Aunt Thelma, who I knew was baking me a cake. As I mounted the first step, I did a double-take. There at the bottom of the stairs, behind the hall door, was a huge flat box. I nearly had “the big one” as I stood there in shock, with my mouth salivating and my knees shaking. Printed on the side, in huge letters was “Marx-A-Mansion Dreamhouse.” My eyes glazed over, and I struggled to climb the stairs, acting as nonchalant as I could. Really? Could they have not hidden this any better than this? But it was here! My house was here – in time for Christmas 1962. So I played dumb.
According to conversations I heard that Christmas, apparently, it took six men and nine babies to put the thing together on Christmas Eve with much cussing and eggnog, as I pretended to sleep, grinning the night away. I had hit pay dirt. My house had the famed “Florida Room,” with wrap-around windows. Yes, the light (lamp) really did light (as long as we had batteries), and the doorbell really did ring. A bonus for me was I also got a kidney shaped pool that went with another Marx house. I later used it for drowning tomato worms in the backyard.

My mother had come through, with the help of my aunt and uncle, and got me the dollhouse when she could afford it. My romance with the house resumed. More than that, it was the beginning of a passionate hobby I still adore. Miniatures! When I was about 47, I fell into the hobby on a visit to our old Ben Franklin store. I saw a small wood house that needed love. I dragged it home and showed my mother who immediately recognized the crazed look on my face. My hobby turned into a monster that couldn't be contained. I'm ashamed to say how much money and time I spent being a miniaturist. Nor will I confess to how many houses in different scales I actually own(ed) and/or constructed.
The biggest was a gigantic vintage Dura-Craft® Farmhouse gifted to me by a friend. It took me three years to rehab it, including wiring, decorating, building and collecting pieces to go inside. A friend from the U.K. sent me a set of silver candlesticks and hand blown glass liquor bottles. I even rigged up a TV that came on.
One night, my family and I were at a Chinese buffet in Muncie when I noticed an odd look on Mom's face. She had spotted it. Of all things to decorate a Chinese restaurant with, was a vintage Marx-A-Mansion Dreamhouse. I trembled. Mine got lost in the shuffle of life decades ago. I think my cousin, Allyson may have inherited it; we did that sort of thing growing up. I never got over my love affair with Marxie. In a rush of adrenaline, I asked the owner if he'd sell. “Absolutely Not!” he said. As I slithered back to my Moo Shu Pork, I saw my ex husband and mother snicker.

But life changes, as do necessities and needs. I no longer have the passion for my miniatures, nor the space and ability to care for them. This week, I am parting with my beloved farmhouse that now holds inches of dust, cobwebs and the remains of the inhabitants my dog has chewed up. It's going to a little girl.

I often look up Marxie online to reminisce. Now valued in the hundreds, I realize my mother struggled to pay $15 for that house for me. But, that was who she was. I didn't get it when I wanted it; but I got it on time. Little did she know the seed she was planting.

Originally Published in The Courier-Times, New Castle, Indiana, Nov 26, 2017

Healing Your Mind, Body and Soul Through Creativity

I studied art in high school almost 50 years ago with dreams of being an “artist.” At the time, I did not know what that meant, and soon realized I was limited in my options. I put my brush away in 1974, and did not pick it up again until 2014, while witnessing my mother's last days in Alzheimer's.

Angry and afraid, and struggling with my frustrations, I began to paint again for therapy and healing. Making art to express my anxiety, love and pain worked for me, as did dancing, baking, and gardening. But mostly by painting, I can tell my stories, and create a life and world that feels ideal to me, no matter what anyone else thinks, or where they fit in – or not.

I learned that it did not matter how my artwork looked to others, because it was for me, about me, and through me. A splash of paint, a dot, or an intricate design led me deeper into my journey. I worked off frustrations and made beauty – whatever I wanted or needed I would create it.

And when my art speaks to and for others, I feel I've done my best, and my work has been done properly. Recently, I participated in a health fair at the YMCA, where I was painting live. At this event, I spoke with people about the benefits of finding your own creativity within yourself, and how therapeutic and healing it can be for you. In my case it was with depression, anxiety and grief. But, it also helps to sooth and calm some physical tension and ailments as well. Several people spoke to me about the possibility of teaching them art. I have a lot of difficulty with this, because I am a self taught folk artist. I don't use, and therefore cannot teach anyone the rules that most artists go by. I can't teach anyone what I don't know or recognize. I wing it and fly where my brush guides me. So, what I can do, however, is to show you how to express yourself from deep within, and trust yourself to follow what it is that comes from your core.

A little girl literally begged me to teach her. I told her mother I really did not think I could do so – The truth is, I don't have a lot of confidence in myself to do so. However, I told her about a summer art day camp at the Henry County Art Center that was beginning last Monday, and perhaps she could enroll her in a class. They seemed somewhat interested, and I thought no more about it.

Teaching at Summer Art Camp 2017

But, as always, there's these quirky little twists that weave in and out of my life. I was invited to give the day camp participants a tour of my exhibit that was still on display at the Art Center last Monday morning. There were quite a few excited and eager young people all ready to start their new artistic summer adventure. And, there among the crowd was my little friend. My heart leaped when I saw her, and she gave me a big hug. I was not able to teach her myself, but I guided her to a source that would … Or, so I thought …

After my presentation to the kids, I was invited to come back in a couple of days and actually teach the students a bit of what I do, and I agreed. What an experience THAT was! I learned so much from those kids in a few short hours, it was mind boggling. I'm not sure what they learned from me, but it was a terrific opportunity for me. It has actually also changed my mind (a bit) about teaching. So, the truth is, I am thinking about it.

Dancing at a Wedding in 2012

Creativity comes from a wide array of sources. If you don't want to paint or draw, consider writing a letter, a poem, or even create a recipe. Sing to yourself – in or out of the shower – dance with yourself in the kitchen at night, and write short stories – whether you share them or not.

CREATE SOMETHING EVERY DAY – Feed your soul and heal your heart and mind. You'll feel better for it in time, and so will others.

Published in The Courier-Times, June 2017

Safe Passage to Now

As I write this, I'm in bed under a warm comforter with a hot cup of alfalfa tea, my laptop, and a fresh case of strep throat. But, a friend called me the other day from New York and told me that out of necessity, she was trying to get back into the job market. She is close to 70. She had been a receptionist for several decades, and retired for the last five years. Life changes rather quickly, and her circumstances suddenly became dire when she realized her pension plan was being dissolved – I don't know the details behind that; she didn't share. But our reality is simply this, anyone and everyone is just one paycheck away from being homeless, no matter how well we prepare or how carefully we live our lives. Remember the Great Depression.

She told me about all the websites she was posting her resume to, and how mind boggling it all was to her. My friend was greatly intimidated, confused and not very optimistic. If she could not wade through Internet job searches, how would she manage to survive in the workforce? I suggested she consider a different line of business this time, but she wanted to do receptionist work again. At her age, she is still very vibrant, articulate, intelligent and attractive. I don't think she'd have a hard time landing a job in that area, but keeping it is another story. Like me, she hates gadgets and devices and programs and protocol and overall progress.

I was familiar with some of the human resource sites she mentioned, having used them myself in the past. Wondering if and when I'll ever need to do the same, I remembered my early days breaking into the job market.

After graduating from high school, I moved back home to New York and lived with my grandparents. My immediate plan was to go down to Greenwich Village and be an artist. My grandparents' immediate plan was that I find a respectable safe job, like a nurse or a secretary. But, because I couldn't bring myself to stay in college longer than a few weeks at a time, they insisted I do something to save myself or else go back to Indiana. Nursing was not for me. The sight or thought of anyone's body fluids made me faint away. So, I decided to work in an office. I took business classes in high school, so I scoured the Sunday paper for job leads. All the good jobs were in Manhattan, and we lived in Queens. That meant I'd have to commute daily by bus and subway.

Nana, my grandmother, insisted on showing me how to 'get around town.' I didn't know that meant she would accompany me on each and every job interview. It was at CBS (television), when the interviewer gently suggested to Nana that she not come in with me on any more interviews. I got a job in their Legal Department as a clerk typist. This was my first real job, and I was ecstatic.

Stacey Maupin Torres, Bryant Park, NYC, 1971

But I'm a restless soul. I took Manhattan by storm, but was not content to sit in anyone's file room. I decided to find another job, and saw an ad in for an employment agency. Venturing into an old building on 42^nd Street, I found myself knocking on a door with the name “Marian Marlowe Employment Agency” on it. I remember entering a tiny one-room office that was furnished very sparsely. Seated behind a large metal desk was a woman, who appeared to be in her 60s. She was heavily made up, had black flamboyant hair, chunky gold jewelry and dressed in a red suit. On her desk was a rotary telephone, two Rolodex and a recipe box marked "Leads," and a large glass ashtray filled with lipstick coated cigarette butts. White smoke swirled around her head and she stared at me with a hawk-like gaze. Tapping her long manicured finger on the desk, she directed me to sit. This was Marian Marlowe.

She asked a few questions about me and asked for my resume. When I handed it to her, she read it carefully, then broke into a rapid raspy chatter that went on for 30 or 40 minutes. She had analyzed and read me in that period of time, and literally re-invented me on the spot. After pulling a card out of her recipe box, she made a call as I sat there nervously. She was yelling at the person on the other end using words like “cracker jack,” “gal,” “girl Friday,” “top notch,” and on and on. This woman trained and groomed me for the job in her office well into the night before I went on the interview the next day. I got the job and a new career as a legal secretary. She convinced me I could do it, and I did, learning as I went along for the next 40 years.

I can't even count how many jobs I've had in my life. Ms. Marlowe was responsible for most of them. I often wonder what happened to her. Later, Nana described an actress named Marion Marlowe (different spelling) who had been in show business in the 50s. I often think that may have been her.

The thing is, no website, career coach or resume builder can really prepare you for keeping a job. It may get you the job; but you have to know how to do you and make it work. And now, I'm finally able to really call myself an artist – my first desire. It took life to get me here.

Published in The Courier-Times, Oct. 2017

Strangers by Birth; Sisters Through Art

In the years before my mother became seriously ill with Alzheimer's, she often brought up the subject of what would happen to me once she was gone. How would I live, support myself, who would I love, and who would love me? My answers were always the same. I'll leave New Castle, and merely go back to work as the legal assistant I had been for almost 40 years. I didn't even consider real estate, because it just wasn't my passion anymore. Living, however, was.

But, in time both our lives changed. I eventually gave up full time work to be home to care for her and help my aging Aunt Thelma, as well. Soon, it was apparent, that my plans were not exactly going to come to light – What do they say; tell God your plans, and he laughs. He laughed hard.

The night after her funeral, I sat in the living room with a hot cup of tea, watching the oncoming blizzard from the front door. And I wondered to myself, “Just what are you going to do now, Stacey?” I had no answer, and I stood frozen in fear, loneliness and uncertainty. I had no clue.

About an hour later, I was checking my emails when I as alerted that I had made a sale on Etsy. That was no big deal; I made lots of sales that year – usually, small $5-$10 painted cards or a drawing now and then. I wasn't too excited, decided to read the email rather than wait until morning. Yes, it was a sale – a substantial sale – a good sale – better than any one I'd had to date. Intrigued, I read the transaction details, and saw the name of the customer; Vicki Moore. My mother's maiden name was Moore. This person lived in Washington, DC. You have to know me and my family – we're always looking for signs and signals from beyond – Everything – and I mean EVERY thing – is a message or omen or sign from spirit – or dead relatives. I immediately thought, “Mom set that sale up!”

My customer's order was all over the place. She selected note cards, drawings, paintings – most notably, an oil pastel of a woman with green hair on black card stock. I was so grateful – even more so when she sent me a photo of how she had staged my humble artwork in her beautiful home. I was in awe because this was so new to me, and she was clearly a collector of amazingly unique art. What did she want with my primitive experimental work? But want it, she did.

Over the last three years, Vicki Moore has become one of my prized art collector clients, a patron, and most importantly, my very dear friend. She has championed me through some tricky times when I questioned my own abilities, praised my art and shared her amazingly colorful life with me as well. Much of my inspiration comes from her and some of the fabulous exotic places she's lived on this planet.

Last winter, Vicki offered to bring me down to Miami where she spends much of the season, with the added perk of being able to attend Miami's noted Art Basel. If you don't know what that is, please Google it; I'll just say it's huge in the contemporary art world. Alas, at the last minute, I was unable to travel due to health issues. But, she didn't let me off the hook that easy. When I opened my solo exhibit at the Art Association of Henry County (Indiana) in May of this year, my friend journeyed to New Castle to be with me for my opening reception. I counted her among my few close friends who were able to be there with and for me, and I never will forget that. That was also the first time we had met in person!

We spent the remainder of that weekend holed up in a hotel room in Downtown Indianapolis, talking about life, our similarities, art, and our remaining hopes and dreams. It was a time I will always cherish. Again, it came at the right time in my life – when I needed some positive reinforcement – and a chance to see if my wings could still fly. The friendship we forged over the last two years has grown.

Love is Finding Stacey Art at Vicki's Door!

During Hurricane Irma, Vicki made the (silly) decision to remain in Miami for reasons still unclear to me, despite pleas from her husband, friends and family. She waited out the storm, in her 6^th floor condo as we texted and called throughout the weekend. That was when I understood the value of our friendship – I was scared. She said she wasn't – but, she was. When the storm died down on Monday, she called to say she was just fine and was working on her personal jewelry line (she makes cool stuff!) … as if nothing had happened.

So, to this day, Vicki Moore continues to inspire me – sending me articles on art, galleries and other musings. Most importantly, she continues to share photos with me of how she stages vignettes and decorates with my art. I really appreciate those messages.

So, if my mother is wondering how things are going, I hope she knows, there is another Ms. Moore in my life – another gem along with my scattering of beautiful friends who have remained with me over the years. I am surrounded by love, support and inspiration. I only hope I can give back to ALL of them, what they have given me. I still don't know what I'm going to do. At almost 64, where do I go; what shall I do? It's never too late to start over, nor is it ever too late to realize your dreams – no matter where or what they are.

Published in The Courier-Times, Sept. 2017